It was rare that such activity had been seen in the chambers of the High Judge. Last time the throne room was so active, the war against the Upsilon was in full swing. Hurried attendants and ministers crowded around Katana’s feet, presenting casualty reports, logistics situations, revised wargame results, and the like.
“Your Dominance, the Broodmatrons are demanding to know what became of their children. The Magistry of Logistics is trying to count and identify the dead and missing, but there are simply too many; we must have additional resources to…”
“Your Dominance, but a fraction of our supply barges in the vanguard survived; they took worse casualties than the combat craft, even. If such results continue, we’ll soon be unable to field offensives out of our territory entirely. The Magistry of Production can triple the dockyard quotas, but we’ll need more money to pay the…”
“Your Dominance, we can still potentially win the day. If Dao’s fleet circles around to the world the humans call Russellton, we can split the Armada off and encircle the enemy whilst still pressing the advantage.”
“Ma’am, disregard her; she doesn’t know how hyperlanes work. However, if we mass our remaining forces, with a generous amount of reinforcements, at this point, we can break their line and…”
“Your Dominance, we cannot face human forces directly at the moment, not until we’ve ascertained if they can do something like this again!”
“Your Dominance…”
“Your Dominance…”
“Your Dominance…”
With a loud, low grunt, the High Judge stood from her throne, her ten-meter-tall form forming an imposing sight over the throne room. What little light existed in the chamber glinted off of her golden exoskeleton, the mere sight of her beauty striking all around her mute.
“Ladies, your contributions are appreciated and your voices heard. However, I cannot help but feel that Overbattlematron Dao is, to a degree, correct. While her decision to retreat poses the utmost dishonor to our people, and she will find her retribution when we are in a situation to give it to her, we cannot afford to field additional offensives into what may well be a set of death traps. It would be as if the Venerable Ancestor had charged headfirst into the ambush at Naspolush Forest. Overjudge Kirpan!”
“Yes, Your Dominance!” the Magister of War saluted.
“What units can be diverted or brought from reserve to the Polegate Front in a timely manner?”
“The levies of Judges Khopesh and Kukri are currently preoccupied with a Dreamwalker nomad fleet passing through the region, but can be reassigned at your leisure.”
“And their number?”
“One hundred and eighty screen craft, twenty capital ships, and two hundred supply barges.”
“That would be like a raindrop in the ocean. What more can we get?”
“The Squireworlds, as you know, have already positioned their forces as close to Polegate as they are legally allowed. They await your word to deploy.”
Katana sighed. “You know how I feel about the Squireworlds; they’re far too fundamentalist for comfort.”
“Of course, Your Dominance, but their numbers are almost two thousand in combat craft alone, with many more to come. With all due respect, we may not be able to refuse such an offer in these trying times.”
Katana thought about it for a moment. They were more zealous in upholding the Venerable Ancestor’s edicts than even her descendants, to the point of their interpretation of Sunsword’s doctrine coming dangerously close to the trappings of a religion. However, any help while they confirmed the nature of the threat was needed. “Inform the Overbattlematron that she is to keep a very close eye on them, but give them my approval.”
“Yes, Your Dominance. Have you any further requests of me?”
“You’re dismissed, Overjudge. Now, Overjudge Dirk, I need my briefing on the international situation immediately; there’s no telling when the Council finds out about this whole fiasco.”
—
As Rapier’s eyes refocused and he started to come around, a million questions flooded through his head. Where was he? Why was he strapped down? Who was the human looking down at him? The last few hours were hazy and unfocused; all he could remember was the terrible, terrible pain rolling through him, physical and otherwise. The air stung at his antennae with the sharp smell of ethanol; he must’ve been in some sort of clinic.
The man above him spoke, the translator hanging around his neck converting his speech from the strange stroke-sounds of human language into a far more palatable form. “What is your name?”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
It took Rapier a few seconds to remember how to talk; his mind was terribly foggy, and it was hard to think. “I am Rapier, of the, uhm… the Idrisat Brood.”
“What’s the date?”
“It’s the eve of the new year, two thousand, three hundred, and, uh… fifty-six, since the Year of Accession.”
“Very good; this keeps with our observations of your calendar. Now, do you know where you are?”
“I don’t remember; it’s been a blur.”
The man looked down, scribbling something onto a pad. “That’s normal; it’s honestly quite impressive that you remember all that you do.”
“What?”
“I’ll say it plainly; you’re very badly concussed, Rapier, and we’re looking at several skull fractures, combined with subdermal bruising in the middle back and lower neck. Say, do you happen to be in a romantic or sexual relationship? You can be honest here; we won’t say anything that you don’t wish to be said.”
“What?”
“Well, Rapier, it is unfortunately somewhat common, whenever humans engage in what you call consorting, that one partner can become very dominant, and can enforce their will on the other through violent means. We worry that this is what has happened to you.”
“No, I’m not a consort; my boss is… she’s not very nice, though. That isn’t normal?”
“So you’re saying that your superior did this to you?”
“She wanted me to be her consort. She got mad when I told her no.”
“And this was her reaction?”
Rapier was silent for a little while. “She got really mad.”
The man wrote something else down. “I see. Did you leave because she hurt you?”
“I can’t remember.”
“That’s okay; we can talk about it later if you want to. Now, in order for your brain to heal, we need to let it rest. For that reason, we’ll be putting you to sleep for a few days while our machines do their work, and we’ll wake you up to make sure that you’re okay every once in a while. Do you understand?”
Rapier didn’t have much of a choice. “One thing.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I was told that humans are nice to the people they catch; nicer than we are, anyway.”
The man thought about it for a moment, then smiled, holding up a mouthpiece of some sort with an air hose trailing off from it. “We do our best. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready.” Rapier said. The man gently fitted the mask over Rapier’s face, and his antennae quivered as something funny-smelling leaked from it for a moment before it sealed on. As Rapier breathed it in, he could feel a warm numbness start on the tip of his tongue and spread downwards, towards his heart. He barely felt the electrodes as they were affixed around his skull, and he didn’t even notice the robotic arm that extended out from behind his bed and began to weave his split-open head back together. His eyes slid closed, and like a warm blanket, sleep took him.
—
For some, the cost of war was material. The price tag on the Second Contact War, for instance, was already stretching into the low trillions. Even before the big ones got dropped, billions and billions of dollars worth of materiel had been expended, lost, destroyed, “misplaced,” or the like, and while the companies that made it were practically rolling in money, the burden on the average taxpayer was noticeable, to say the least.
For others, the cost of the war was human. It was estimated that close to four million people had died on CAST’s side of the war alone, and if AHINT published their numbers, it was estimated that they would probably have lost almost as much. Four million sons and daughters, husbands and wives, would never see their families again, and that was cost enough.
For Darren, the cost was personal. It was his ability to fight. The infection had ravaged his body almost beyond repair; he could barely stand. Though, infection wasn’t the best word for it, he heard; it was something more akin to poison. Whatever hellspawn he had encountered in that Omen forest had really done a number on him.
With a calm, careful stride, a nurse pushed back the curtain around Darren’s bed and entered his little segment of the sickbay. “Good morning, Darren.” she said offhand. She had a rather heavy New Zealander accent, but that was to be expected; the Kalgoorlie was an ANZAC ship, after all.
“Issit time?” Darren slurred. His tongue was among the parts of him that were still recovering.
“Yes, sir. We’ve secured a spot for you in a therapy hospital in the core worlds. I hear that Alpha Centauri III is quite idyllic this time of year.”
“Am I goin’ home?”
“If the Army determines that you can’t fight again, yes.”
Darren thought about this for a moment. The US Army was his life; to imagine that he’d have to leave it was terrifying to him. How would he get a job when all he knew was how to kill people? If he found himself out of the military, he would, in all probability, be dependent on the VA for the rest of his life. And to think this all came out of one thing…
Suddenly, his gaze hardened. “I wanna phone call.”
The woman cocked her head to the side. “To whom?”
—
“Ma’am, someone by the name of Staff Sergeant Hardwell wants to call you. He says it’s urgent.” the attendant said as he barged into Spatha’s office.
“Knock, dammit,” Spatha said, annoyed, “but patch him through.”
“Yes, ma’am.” the attendant nodded, pressing a few buttons on his tablet. The telephone on Spatha’s desk began to ring and she picked up the receiver, putting it to her good antenna. Spatha had learned that humans’ audials were located lower on their heads, and thus had a special phone made for her, longer than those made for humans to allow her to hold it comfortably.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Spata; is Darren.” the man on the other end said, his voice slow and lispy, like something had inhibited his capacity for speech.
“What’s wrong, Darren?” Spatha asked, her antennae standing up on end with apprehension.
“Got wou–woun–got hurt. Somethin’ cut me, was poi-son-ous.” Darren had to sound out the last word to ensure that he said it correctly.
“What’s going on? Are you okay now?”
“Gonna be. Goin’ home; might stay for the war.”
Spatha nodded. “I see. If you need anything before you leave…”
“I do.”
“Oh?”
Darren’s voice dropped, low and quiet. He sounded like he was concentrating totally on speech. “Get that bastard McCullough. He can’t get away with this.”
Spatha vaguely recalled Darren visiting her a while prior about the Captain. If he wanted her to pick up where he left off, who was she to deny his request? “I’ll look into him for you.”
“Tanks.”
“Yeah. Won’t waste your time.”
“Alright. I’ll see you when this is over.” Spatha said.
“Bye.”
“Goodbye, Sergeant.” Spatha laid the receiver back in its cradle. She wasn’t entirely sure if she had the time; she had the Free Poslush Army to command, after all. However, Spatha enjoyed Darren’s presence; he had a sort of casual air about him that she didn’t really see from other members of his race when they interacted with her. He made her feel like she had made a good choice in siding with them. Thus, she would try and bring the truth to light, for his sake.
What else were friends for?